


You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

by weepingnaiad



Series: Laundry verse [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Gen, Laundry, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is a man out of time and he might be a bit lost everywhere.  Except <i>not</i> at the laundromat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Encouragement and word wrangling by my dear one, hitlikehammers. I, of course, fiddle with it afterwards, so any and all mistakes are all on me. Thanks so much, m'dear!
> 
> **A/N:** This was supposed to be a simple little fic about Steve Rogers doing laundry in the 21st century. It turned into something _not_ that, though there is a lot of laundry porn and I'd give my shirt for the laundry room in Stark Tower.

The first time Steve set foot in the tower's laundry room, he'd almost turned away to seek out an ordinary laundromat. But he'd accepted Tony's offer of help, and Steve wasn't one to back down from a challenge. The tower was his home now, after he'd found himself and his belongings on the sidewalk -- apparently his lease hadn't allowed for bullet holes or blood stains -- no home, no job, no Bucky, and no Sam, though, in fairness, it'd been on Steve's advice that he hightail it out of Dodge for a couple of months until things cooled off. And now he didn't even have Natasha nearby to pepper him with questions. So Steve had swallowed his pride and called Stark.

That was a conversation he didn't want to repeat. Ever.

And now he was living in Stark's monument to himself, re-learning a still-recovering New York City, and trying to piece together who Steve Rogers was without the Army, without SHIELD, without a clear-cut definition of anything. 

Most days, the only things Steve knew with certainty were that he was still as stubborn as ever and that Stark was incomprehensible before coffee, whether it was morning or not.

And didn't that say more about Steve Rogers than all the exposés and ridiculous gossip ever could?

~~*~~

No stranger to washing clothes -- he'd started helping his mom fold clothes before he started school, and his creases with the hot iron were better than hers, so they had a steady clientele and the extra money topped up the budget enough to offset the cost of his medicines -- he'd still felt out of place the first time he'd found the basement laundry room in his apartment. But Tony's laundry room bore as much resemblance to that cramped, badly lit room as an F-15 bore to a pigeon.

With Jarvis's aid, Steve figured out which machines were the washers and which were the dryers. He discovered detergents of all types from 'free and clear' to 'safe for baby' to 'heavy duty'. If his head spun from the varieties of soap, his nose itched from the veritable meadow of scented softeners. That explanation had taken Jarvis awhile to get through Steve's head, but he did come to appreciate the softness of his sheets and towels. He recognized the bleach, grateful for one familiar brand, but had no idea about the other laundry aids. What soap worth the money needed help to clean shirts?

The room itself was like something out of science fiction, with machines of shiny chrome and brushed nickel, laundry baskets in bright red and blue tucked underneath a huge folding table, beyond which were a double sink and two fold-down ironing boards along with a spindly machine that almost looked like a vacuum, but was, in fact, a steamer. There were rods and rods filled with more hangers than a dry cleaner's, and tucked in a corner behind the basket under the laundry chute was the one thing that reminded him of home: a washboard, And even _it_ gleamed in chrome and plastic along with everything else. The whole room was bright and spotless, shining in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the wide windows.

Steve didn't know much, but having windows in a laundry room seemed excessive even for Tony. But he didn't question his good fortune. Instead, he set to his task with determination.

After learning the ins and outs of everything in the room, Steve began to feel at ease when he crossed its threshold every Sunday morning after his jog. He would strip his sheets, gather his clothes, toss it all in a duffle and take the stairs down. When the lights came up and Jarvis began playing Count Basie, Steve smiled.

The repetition of the movements, the way they were familiar -- because even a sickly Steve Rogers could help his mama fold laundry -- all of it was calming and soothing in a way few things in Stark Tower ever were. So Steve grasped the normalcy of it and never considered that doing laundry might be in any way odd. It was his routine and one that he fully controlled. The fact that no one ever thought to look for him in Stark's gleaming laundry room was just icing on the cake; gave him time to sort out his thoughts and feelings and process some of the shit that he couldn't imagine ever saying aloud, especially now that the Winter Soldier's eyes haunted Steve's dreams.

~~*~~

If Steve hid in the laundry room, no one had to know. He was washing his clothes, after all. He was accomplishing something, and if the music was from a bygone era and the jumbled thoughts in his head had more in common with Laurel & Hardy than the shiny technicolor non-stop world he resided in, well. His thoughts were his own.

And this, too, was something he'd made his own. Folding his sheets and towels after burying his nose in the warm cloth, the barest hint of lavender tickling his senses. Everything was overdone nowadays, too much scent, too much color, too much light, too much dark and even laundry had changed radically. The first time he'd used fabric softener, he couldn't sleep for the way he felt himself choking on fresh spring scent, whatever _that_ was supposed to be. It was cloying and heavy, worse than the painted ladies in the streets of France. Steve had had to wash everything again, just so he could _breathe._

But now he's got his system down and just a drop of scented fabric softener was all he needed. Everything else was hypo-allergenic, fragrance-free, non-toxic -- and when was laundry soap toxic? was that an actual _thing_ or just more hype? -- color-safe and biodegradable. Steve folded his t-shirts, his boxers, even his jocks. Everything had value and a place and Steve took care like his ma had taught him. He ironed his shirts and slacks, careful despite the shiny chrome and red iron with a boggling array of settings including steam and mist.

He did enjoy the fabrics of today. His khakis held a crease without having to be starched board-stiff and they didn't wrinkle throughout most of a day's wear. He knew his ma would be amazed by the variety of cloths, the colors, and the way things were so buttery soft, almost silky; their glide against his skin sweet and soothing. He appreciated the weft and weave, how the fibers never chafed, but he noticed that things weren't made as durable nowadays; the stitches were flimsy and rushed. Everything, even people, it seemed, were disposable. The first time he'd ripped a seam in his pants and sat down in the common room with a needle and thread, Tony'd been struck silent. It took all of Steve's carefully crafted persona to keep from blushing as Tony gaped.

"Cap? What are you doing?"

"I'm sewing, Tony. What does it look like I'm doing?" Steve answered, the reply more sarcastic than he'd intended.

Tony blinked, quiet for a beat longer before gazing up at the ceiling. "J? I have people who do that sort of thing, don't I?"

"Tony," Steve tried to interrupt.

_"Yes, sir. You have tailors that are well-versed in repairing your clothing,"_ Jarvis replied, seemingly ignoring Steve altogether.

"I am perfectly capable--" Steve tried again.

Tony held up a hand. "Stop right there, Cap. We have machines to do this now. And people who are experts at using them. You're a super soldier, not Betsy Fuckin' Ross."

"That's disrespectful," Steve chided.

Tony just shrugged. "What? I don't think she actually sewed the original flag."

Steve continued making the fine stitches his mother had taught him, but kept Tony in his periphery. "Of course she did," he said.

"Hell, Cap. I could buy you another pair -- four, probably! -- for what your repair is costing in valuable super soldier time."

Steve made a knot and bit off the excess thread before turning his pants right side out. Only then did he look up at Tony as he smoothed the seam with his finger, checking his work. Fine as his mama's. That had been another thing he was able to do while he sat inside. The folks who picked up their laundry always complimented her on the evenness of her stitches and she never corrected them, just tousled Steve's hair and smiled proudly at him. "There's no need. I like doing this," he told Tony.

Steve put away the needle, the thread, and his scissors in the small cigar box, just like his Ma had, before standing. 

"Wait, what?" Tony asked.

"There's no sense wasting a perfectly good pair of pants, and I'm good at this."

Tony grabbed the slacks from Steve and looked at the repair, turning the pants inside out before returning them. "Damn. Guess you know your way around a needle and thread..."

"Thanks, Tony," Steve said, smiling as he walked off. It felt good to leave Tony searching for words for a change.

~~*~~

Then Natasha sent Steve a set of coordinates, a possible lead about Bucky's whereabouts and Steve packed to go it alone. But before he started his bike, Sam strode into the Tower parking garage, a duffle bag on his shoulder and a frown on his lips.

"I can explain--" Steve began.

"Don't give me that shit. You're too close to this, man," Sam replied and Steve couldn't argue.

"I guess offering to drive isn't gonna fly?" Steve tried.

"I ain't riding bitch, Rogers," Sam said, arms crossed. Then he smiled and damn if Steve didn't feel a whole lot better. "But I do have a sweet ride for us."

"Lead on, MacDuff."

So that was how Steve found himself on a Stark jet with an all-too-familiar pilot.

"Barton," Steve said. "I should have known."

Clint saluted, then cocked his head at Sam. "You must be Sam. Call me Clint. I'm just the pilot for this craziness."

"From what I hear, I don't buy that," Sam replied, clasping Clint's outstretched arm.

Clint gave a shrug and a tiny smile. "I won't leave you hanging out to dry, but I'd prefer to keep a low profile right now."

"Deal. It's not like any of this is official, right, Rogers?" Sam asked as he dropped onto the bench.

"Right. Off book."

"Buckle up, then," Clint said before they took off. Unsurprisingly, Clint was a damned good pilot, even if Steve was pretty sure every call sign he reported was a blatant fabrication.

They landed and things went south so fast Steve didn't have time to think, to ponder that he'd dragged them into a trap. He could only react, ducking bullets and fucking smoke grenades, his shouted words unheard over the report of gunfire. Bucky's aim, it seemed, was pushing him away; clearly he had no interest in being 'saved'.

Steve stopped Clint from taking him down, but not before there was too much blood everywhere, most of it Steve's, thank god. It was nothing serious (for _Steve,_ he didn't allow himself to think about if it had been Sam or Clint), healed before they made it back to the Tower, but the very fact of it still left Steve shaky and finding it harder to breathe than he had since he'd woken up to a changed world.

With Sam hovering, his easy smile gone missing, Steve was stuck lounging on the sofa, his eyes open and staring at the television. But his skin prickled, going hot and then cold, an over exuberant shower doing nothing to slow the crawling along his spine. He focused on the show, or else tried to, but his thoughts were a scrambled mess and his heart ached, deep in his chest: a slow burn that had begun on that Insight carrier, its banked embers bursting into flame with the bite of a bullet and a spray of blood.

Steve tipped his head back, tried to catch his breath, but the fire in his chest made his lungs wheeze, bad as the asthma ever had. As he gasped for air, his heart joined the action, its steady beat gone frantic and wild.

He leapt up, startling Sam. "I'm gonna throw in a load of laundry," he said, too loud, too sharp. "You… uh, make yourself at…" _home_ he wanted to say, but didn't even know what that meant anymore. Steve glanced at the screen, had no idea what they were watching. He flapped his hand in that general direction. "Enjoy the show."

"Need to be alone?" Sam asked, always quick to _get_ Steve.

"Please," Steve said, so grateful he could barely get the word out.

"Go ahead then," Sam said, strong body sinking into Stark's ridiculous couch. "I'll hold the fort down from here." He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, placed his legs on an ottoman and turned his attention back to the large screen. It all seemed so casual, nothing to see here. Steve didn't just think himself into a panic attack. Nope. Sam was watching television and Steve was going to do laundry. Something normal people did. Probably.

Steve fled to the laundry room, had to return to his quarters to grab his clothes, but he could feel himself finding solid ground as he took the stairs, the shapeless bag tossed over his shoulder. The moment the lights came up and Basie began to play, he drew in a slow, deep breath and stopped. After the saxes and trumpets of _One O'Clock Jump_ ended, he found himself at the sink, washboard out with his jeans and shirt under cool water turning a rusty brown. Part of him was horrified, but he couldn't stop the motions; the repetition, the monotonous familiarity began to dull the roar of self-recrimination while the scent of bleach and soap blotted out the stench of failure.

As he folded his t-shirts, Steve finally began to breathe easily once more.

~~*~~

After that, Sam just stayed. Steve thought Tony might have had a hand in Sam's presence, though it might have had something to do with Clint hanging around. He couldn't tell. But Sam and Clint bonded over bad television and war stories. Steve would feel guilt that he hadn't figured Clint for a military man -- too undisciplined and flippant -- but then Steve didn't know a damn thing about Clint beyond Clint being the best shot Steve'd ever seen and Natasha trusting him. Steve knew that because he'd overheard a frantic call with Natasha's voice shaking when she left a message warning Clint about Hydra.

But he was learning there was more to Clint than good aim. He could cook. He was almost as bad as Tony without coffee. And he was hiding a depth of pain achingly familiar to Steve behind snark and sass. Steve'd caught a glimpse of desolation in Clint's eyes exactly once. Clint didn't just have good eyes, he seemed to have them in the back of his head. His hearing wasn't great -- Steve'd seen him take out the tiny aid in his left ear -- but he more than made up for it with incredible situational awareness. Sam and Clint were zonked out on the sofa, their horror movie marathon still playing, and Steve couldn't sleep. Not willing to disturb them for a cup of warm milk, Steve'd stuck to the outside wall and crept silently under the cover of screams and creepy music. When he made the kitchen, he risked a glance back into the den to see Clint, not asleep. He was unmoving, slouched against the end of the sofa, eyes bleeding anguish as he stared at a set of dog tags in his palm.

Steve had no clue who Clint had lost, but it'd been someone deeply important. He wondered if he'd ever know the whole story.

~~*~~

Steve sat near the windows, sketching, mere doodles while Sam and Clint bickered over the remote with Bruce sitting in an armchair, ostensibly reading some journal while the half-smile he wore and the subtle glances he kept throwing at the bantering duo gave him away. The entire scene was comfortable, _homey_ and it was all a little impossible.

Then Natasha wandered in, insinuated herself between Clint and Sam -- which was quite the feat considering that those two had no concept of personal space -- and wordlessly stopped their argument by switching the channel to something with weird music and a blue police box. Doctor something or other was all Steve caught before having to stifle laughter at how quickly Bruce switched from feigning disinterest to squeezing in on Clint's other side. Luckily, Tony had purchased oversized everything.

Steve smiled to himself, his attention drawn back to the sketchpad when Clint called out, "Cap? Aren't you gonna watch with us?"

"Doesn't seem like my type of program. I'm not into medical dramas. I lived enough of them--" he broke off as Sam laughed.

"Oh, man. No one's had you watch Doctor Who?"

"Who?" Steve asked, brow furrowed.

"Yes!" Clint crowed, before crying, "Ow! Dammit, Nat!"

"Steve," Natasha said, husky voice grabbing his attention instantly. "This is a science fiction show. It's been around for decades--"

"It's about a time lord, a man out of time, last of his kind, who protects us Earthlings," Clint interrupted.

"Sound familiar?" Sam asked, eyes sparkling.

"It's a show with cheap special effects and a lot of heart," Bruce added. "If you've never watched, we should ease you into it. Maybe start with Pertwee? Or Baker's 'The Key to Time' series?"

Steve had no clue what they were talking about, but before he could ask, Tony strode into the room, barking orders and sucking all the air from the space.

"Okay, J, Doctor Who marathon it is," he said, hands waving. "Order pizza and beer."

_'Right away, Sir,'_ Jarvis answered.

"Legolas, make popcorn," Tony said, pointing at Clint.

"Wait, why me?" Clint argued.

"Because you're the only one who doesn't burn it."

"Oh. Fine," he grumbled, but levered himself up from between Natasha and Bruce. "No one gets my spot, Stark."

"I like my balls right where they are, Katniss. I'll sit over here," Tony said, settling sideways into a wide armchair, legs tossed over one arm. Then he glanced at Steve. "Get your ass over here, Capsicle. This is for you."

"I-I don't know," Steve stammered, as all eyes turned on him.

"It's nothing but fun," Bruce coaxed.

So Steve set aside his pad and joined them.

Compared to most of the shows he'd seen, Doctor Who was a lot cheesy, but it was fun, easy entertainment with nothing to trip him up; reminded him of 'Buck Rogers' a bit. If Steve related to the Tenth Doctor too much, he'd never admit it out loud. And if his laundry didn't get done that weekend, he figured it'd be okay. Just this once.

~~*~~

Too many weeks had passed with no hint of Bucky or the Winter Soldier and Steve's worry was swelling like a cancer in his gut. He should be out there searching. _Finding._ He owed Bucky… everything. And this waiting around in-between playing 'Whack-a-Mole' with Hydra was making Steve ache. His clothes had never been so clean, though.

He was ironing his khakis -- _yes, Tony I own jeans_ \-- music a low hum in the background while his mind raced like a hamster in a wheel. He kept circling the target, never hitting, each piece of intel too fleeting to help him zero in and none of it made a damn bit of sense…

"Cap?"

Clint's words arrested the furious peddling of Steve's thoughts. He glanced up to see Clint in the doorway holding an overflowing basket of clothes in front of himself.

"Hey," Steve greeted, offering a gentle smile. Clint was still a bit awkward and uncertain around Steve when it was just the two of them. It was another piece of the puzzle that was Clint Barton. Just when Steve though he understood the guy, he'd bring home a one-eyed dog while wearing a sheepish expression that smacked of hope and desperation with far too much expectation of failure. Tony would rant. Sam would be on his knees, smiling. And Jarvis would add a dog -- Lucky -- to his list of approved residents.

And now Clint was trying to shove three loads of laundry, including lingerie, into one machine.

"Clint! Wait!" Steve called out as he set the iron aside.

Clint froze, turning to face Steve. "Huh?"

Steve shook his head and reached into the wad of clothes, extracting bras and lacy panties. "What are these?"

Clint flushed bright red and rubbed the back of his neck. "Not mine?" He didn't sound too sure of that.

Steve assumed they were Natasha's. He wasn't _blind._ "Didn't say they were," he replied. "But you wash them in with this mess and they'll disintegrate."

Steve snagged a couple of lingerie bags and zipped the items in before tossing them into an empty washer. He selected the hand wash cycle, and used a bit of delicate detergent, before turning back to find Clint gaping at him.

"You… what… how?"

Steve grinned then, sly and wicked. "I toured with a dance troop, Clint. New body, bunch of beautiful dames. You think I didn't learn a thing or three?"

Clint nearly choked before breaking down into laughter so hard he had to grip his sides. "Oh, my fuckin' god, Cap! You are such a troll! Can't wait to tell --"

Steve was grinning ear to ear, enjoying Clint's laughter when he stopped suddenly. Steve risked meeting Clint's eyes and his expression crumpled, eyes bleak, _broken_ : in so much pain, they were darker than pitch. Steve recognized that expression, he'd seen it in the mirror often enough, but when he reached out to offer comfort, aid, anything, even just a warm clasp of hands, Clint let out a fractured sound, part-sob, part-swear, and fled.

Steve sagged against the washer and cursed under his breath. At least he had more laundry to keep him occupied.

~~*~~

Whatever that was in the laundry room, it shattered the camaraderie they'd been building. Steve didn't see Clint around, and he had a feeling he was being avoided. Then Natasha appeared looking bruised and worn. She almost smiled at Steve, opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. She patted his arm, then was gone.

Sam, at least, didn't change. But he did bug out a little more often: brows furrowed, unsmiling. Almost as though Clint's disappearing act was his fault and not Steve's.

And Tony… well, Tony was _Tony._ He mostly spent his time in the lab muttering over too many flashing displays and would only shake his head when Steve asked questions. So no help would come from that quarter.

One evening found Steve and Bruce sharing the common room, but instead of a companionable silence, the common room was oppressively _empty._ And Steve couldn't bear it any longer. He blurted out, shattering the stillness, "I don't get it. One minute Clint was laughing like a loon. Then the next…"

He stopped himself, rubbed a hand over his face, smudging it with charcoal, before apologizing, "Sorry. Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Not my story to tell."

Bruce had his head cocked, those dark brown eyes of his filled with far too much understanding. "What happened?" he asked, voice gentle, coaxing. Bruce was the biggest contradiction Steve had ever known. A man as placid as a deep lake, so unassuming as to be nearly unnoticed, and yet he had a giant rage-fueled monster within. It made no sense -- _he_ made no sense -- but Bruce's improbable existence had to be why he was such a good listener.

Steve tried to explain, started with the lingerie, telling Bruce the whole conversation, the exact words tumbling out with ease. Steve was more than enhanced biceps; his eidetic memory was an additional benefit now, too.

"Clint must have lost someone. It…" Bruce hesitated. "It's worse after a while. When things return to 'normal'," he said, complete with air quotes, "because that's when it'll trip you up. When you've forgotten that you're missing a limb and something happens and it all comes rushing back, swift and fierce. They're _gone._ And nothing will ever be normal again."

Steve knew Bruce was speaking from personal experience, from a loss as acute as Clint's; one that left a gaping hole in his soul, like the one in Steve. Steve _knew_ when he met Bruce's eyes. "Oh," Steve said, swallowing.

"You said he was laughing, so he was doing better. And now he feels the loss all over again and more guilt for ever allowing himself that laughter."

"Damn," Steve breathed out.

Bruce shrugged. "It's not your fault, Cap."

"Wish I'd --"

"What? Known where the mines were buried?"

Steve nodded.

"You're not a mind reader. We all have our triggers. Not your fault." Bruce returned his attention to his book and Steve murmured a quiet, "Thanks."

It didn't help to know he hadn't broken Clint, didn't absolve Steve of his part in it, but at least Steve understood where Clint was coming from.

They were all broken, but maybe, these broken pieces could fit together into something like a team. Or maybe a _family._

~~*~~

Just when Steve was about to give in and track Clint down for a face-to-face, he stumbled across him and Natasha sparring in the gym. Staying silent, he leaned against the door and watched.

The pair were well matched, clearly sparred together often, they were so in sync. They were gorgeous in motion: equal and opposite, as though dancing; grace and power with a fearsome intensity and an odd lightness. It seemed as though joy suffused their faces as they punched, twisted, rolled, and flipped. Steve found it compelling, was mesmerized by their partnership. And he burst into applause when Clint managed to pin Natasha after nearly losing his balls. Guys had to stick together, after all.

"Cap!" Clint jerked upright, straightening: back going stiff, eyes on the floor.

"At ease, soldier," Steve automatically barked out. "It's good to see you," he added to soften it.

Natasha gave Steve a tiny smile before elbowing Clint hard in the ribs. He flinched and visibly swallowed before looking up. "Sorry, I've been…"

"What Clint's trying to say," Natasha took pity on Clint's fading resolve, "is that there's been some trouble at his place. We needed to take care of it. Isn't that right?" Her elbow hovered near Clint's ribs and he shifted, flexing to get out of jabbing range.

"Yep. That's it," Clint latched on to Natasha's story. "Not like I was avoiding you." Clint's eyes went wide, then slammed shut. "Aw, mouth, no," he said, betrayed.

Steve chuckled, then laughed, his mirth growing when Natasha and Clint, too, joined in. They weren't any less broken, their jagged edges still cut, but this felt like they'd crossed another threshold. Some of those gaping wounds might just be healing.

~~*~~

They assembled, again and again, Hydra cells interspersed with average mad scientists and the usual villains of the week, until the days bled together. Luckily, they had Sam now, with his new wings à la Stark allowing him to provide additional air support while Sam himself provided a refreshing common sense that the rest of them sometimes (often) lacked.

It was still too damn much, too often, too soon and they were all worn, fraying at the edges until another extended battle left them sprawled on the furniture in the common room. No one even had the energy to change. Steve surveyed his team, unconsciously measuring them against the Howling Commandos. They didn't compare. They couldn't. But he didn't need them to. He could have his memories; wasn't forced to trade Dugan, Morita, Jones, Falsworth, and Dernier for Clint, Natasha, Tony, Bruce, and Sam. He could keep both, hold them close where he'd lost Peggy and Bucky. He wouldn't lose this. And this team would help him bring Buck home. _Here._

Bucky'd gape at the excess. The luxury. Then he'd charm everyone, even Clint; _especially_ Clint. Those two would be trouble and maybe Steve should re-think introducing them.

"Earth to Capsicle."

Tony's voice startled Steve back to alertness.

"You nodded off, old man. Nonagenarians need their sleep, Rogers."

"And a shower," Sam tacked on, his grin just as big even if he was more than a little battered and bruised himself.

Clint levered himself off the sofa, began stretching with a few clicks and pops that didn't sound all that natural to Steve's ears, but he let out a hearty groan before offering a hand up to Natasha. She stood with more grace than anyone had a right to after slipping off the hood of a speeding car. "C'mon, Tash. You patch up my back and I'll wrap your ribs."

"After a long, hot soak," she said, taking his hand. The two of them left slowly, arms intertwined as they leaned against each other.

Steve found himself staring after them, that familiar ache welling again until a hand waved in front of his eyes. Slowly -- too slowly, had he drifted off? -- Steve focused on Tony's outstretched hand. He gripped it, allowing himself to be tugged upright.

"Thanks. We'll debrief in the morning," Steve muttered, voice hoarse. "Once we're all rested." He stared at Tony.

"Just gonna have Jarvis start --"

"Jarvis, can you please lock Tony out of the lab until he's had a solid six hours?" Steve asked the A.I.

"Hey! That's my--"

_'Consider it done, Captain Rogers.'_

"Traitor!"

Steve cocked his head, arms crossed over his chest, daring Tony to argue. As a testament to how exhausted he was, Tony slumped and didn't say a word.

Sam was out the door before Steve could order him to do a damn thing.

There'd be time enough to figure out the rest of Hydra's secrets, but they'd never manage if they didn't get some sleep.

"You first, Cap."

"Oh, no, Tony. _You_ first."

"Age before beauty, right, J?" Tony said as they staggered into the elevator. "Wait. You're on his side now."

"Ignore him Jarvis," Steve said, nearly laughing at Tony's expression when Jarvis agreed.

They bickered all the way to their respective floors where Steve forewent the shower and collapsed face first on his bed.

~~*~~

"Cap?" Tony said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"Yeah, Tony?" Steve replied as he pulled his head out of the fridge. "What's up?" He felt compelled to ask when he saw Tony's demeanor.

"J? We alone?"

_'Indeed you are, sir. Doctor Banner has not yet returned from Nigeria. Agents Barton and Romanoff are having a spa day while Mister Wilson is leading a session at the local library.'_

Steve wasn't sure if he found Jarvis' complete knowledge of the team's whereabouts reassuring or creepy. He was holding onto reassurance for the moment, even if he did find Tony's furtive manner disconcerting.

"Tony? What's going on?" he demanded, voice slipping into 'Captain Hardass' mode, as Tony called his command tone. If Tony had found something about Bucky…

"Cool your jets, Cap," Tony waved Steve off as he beelined for the coffee maker, StarkPad deposited on the island as he passed. "I found something we should talk about before I risk telling the others."

"Risk?" Steve's jaw clenched, face going hard. "Tony. What did you find?"

"Chill out. This ain't about your brainwashed bestie," Tony muttered around a mug of darkest sludge.

Steve gritted his teeth, holding onto his patience by a thread.

"Ahhhhhhh," Tony moaned as he finished his coffee. "I needed that."

Steve was certain that Tony's goal in life was to drive him completely insane and times like these were the proof. Tony still didn't reveal what he'd found. He poured himself another cup, sipping twice before glancing up at Steve.

"You know how I was combing through those records Romanoff released?"

"Yes," Steve ground out. Of course he did. Tony had been working on that for _months._ "What does that--"

"Uh-uh," Tony wagged a finger at Steve. "I get to tell this _my_ way."

Steve ducked his head, took a deep breath, then settled into parade rest, hands behind his back, shoulders straight, eyes focused on Tony as he waited.

His silence unnerved Tony, who blinked for a minute, then shook his head, waving his free hand. "Um, as you were, or whatever."

Steve didn't move.

"Goddammit, Rogers!"

"I'm waiting, Stark."

"Fine! I was trying to figure out how all these assholes are still communicating. They're too damned coordinated to be isolated cells."

"We did discuss that possibility."

"Well, I think I found their signal. It's a rider in the white noise between SHIELD's frequencies!" Tony crowed and Steve nearly smiled. "They've encrypted the messages, but their key was too easy to guess. They're idiots, basically. Arrogant idiots. As if I couldn't--"

"Tony," Steve interrupted. "You said you found something that we needed to discuss?"

"Oh, right. Yeah. For an underground organization they have a boatload of sites." He picked up his tablet and flipped it so that they could both see. The world map was slowly filling with red dots. 

"Are those--"

"Hydra cells. Yep."

"Shit."

"But we know where they are now. If we don't let them know we've broken their code, we can catch them flat-footed."

"Tony, we don't have the manpower for this." Steve whistled at all the dots. " _Stark Industries_ doesn't have the manpower for this."

Tony nodded. "I know that. But there's help out there."

"Where?"

Tony tapped the tablet some more; screens went flashing by. Steve didn't try to keep up as he peered over Tony's shoulder. "I think Coulson's alive," he whispered.

And there on the screen were documents, not recent, but dated long after the Battle of New York. There were after action reports, requisitions, expense requests… "He broke a plane?" Steve blurted out.

Then Steve straightened. "Tony. How do you know this is Phil Coulson? The same Agent Coulson? There could easily be more than--"

"Steve," Tony said, voice low and Steve had to pay attention. "Agent Phil Coulson died that day, but Fury did something…. Look!" He gestured and there was a grainy photograph of Phil Coulson in a red sports car. There were more images. Other people in the frames, repeating faces, unfamiliar faces, always at his side.

"I don't… are you sure these are recent? Tony. We have to be sure."

Tony nodded, his jaw set. "Oh, I'm sure, Cap. One of the Hydra baddies, one that seems pretty high up -- Whitehall -- he's got a grudge and has his sights set on our Agent."

"I thought Pierce was the head of Hydra," Steve said.

"Cut one off, two will take its place," Tony replied, not one lick of humor in his tone.

"Fuck!" Steve swore. "How do we tell Clint and Natasha?"

"How do you tell us what?" Steve whirled, eyes wide with guilt before he ducked his head, afraid to answer.

"J? What the fuck?" Tony swore.

_'I am sorry, sir. Did I misunderstand something?'_

Steve's head jerked up to look at the ceiling, despite knowing that Jarvis was not there. But he couldn't help the way he was staring, the way he felt like a damned computer had just schooled him and Tony. _Geezus._

"Fuck, J! What the hell is wrong with you?" Tony sounded truly bewildered.

"Tell us what?" Clint repeated, voice harder, displeased.

"Run a goddamn level five diagnostic, J," Tony hissed.

_'Yes, sir,'_ Jarvis replied. _'I can assure you that there is no malfunction in my programming.'_ He sounded like he was trying to soothe Tony.

"Of course there's a damned malfunction!" Tony argued.

"Tony!" Clint barked. He'd moved completely into the kitchen, pushing himself forward, Natasha at his six, her eyes focused on _Steve._

_'We did discuss the eventuality of revealing the secret, did we not, sir?'_

The thing was you didn't hint that there was a secret and get caught out by a pair of spies and not have consequences. Natasha hadn't taken her eyes off Steve and he was going to crack under that intent stare if Clint didn't punch Tony first.

Clint took another deliberate step forward, hands clenching.

Tony swore. "Diagnostic, Jarvis. Now!"

_'It is running now, sir.'_ And Jarvis, for all that he was too often smug and superior, sounded almost _contrite._

Another step and Tony would be in Clint's grasp.

Tony's eyes were flitting from Clint to Natasha and then pleading with Steve. As if Steve could fix this utterly fucked up disaster.

"Clint. Natasha. Sorry. We just…" Steve faltered. 

"Found a big… um… news…" Tony tried to help.

The thing was Steve Rogers had never been subtle. And he'd had enough of secrets himself. This one. Well, it was hardly a secret that Clint and Natasha had worked with Agent Coulson. They both attended his funeral, even if they'd been hidden in the back.

"Phil Coulson is alive," he said. Better to rip off the bandage than tip-toe around it any longer.

"What?!"

The explosion of sound from Clint wasn't quite anger, but it was definitely outrage and hurt and a whole lot of disbelief. That was almost easier to answer than the sudden silence in the doorway. When Steve turned his attention toward Natasha, she'd gone white, eyes dark, her expression flat.

Tony did what he does: he answered emotional outbursts with tech. He turned the tablet around, handed it over, gave them everything he had: from the plane, to his new team, to images of Agent Coulson alive and well, and now with a target on his back.

Clint was flipping through everything too fast for Steve to follow, but he got to the Whitehall intel and cursed under his breath, "Fury!" before taking the StarkPad and fleeing; Natasha hot on his heels.

"Fuck!" Tony sighed out. "That could have gone better."

~~*~~

"Any idea where our resident assassins have gotten off to, Cap?"

Steve blinked up at Tony and shook his head. "I thought you had trackers on them?" Steve continued to fold towels. He'd needed the calming routine to deal with Tony after the last three weeks.

"Had would be the operative word. They disabled them two hours out."

Tony was standing in the threshold of the laundry room looking more awkward than was possible for Tony.

"And what makes you think I'd know something?"

Tony just shrugged, but stayed in the doorway. Taking pity on him, Steve tugged a fitted sheet out of the pile and held it up. "Well, come here then. Make yourself useful."

"What?"

"Get your lazy ass over here, Stark. Fitted sheets are a bitch to fold by myself."

"But… I…never..." Tony protested even as he was moving forward.

"Don't tell me your genius is stymied by a piece of cotton?" Steve razzed.

That ruffled Tony's feathers, just as Steve'd planned. Nothing was as neat as if Steve had done it all by himself, but the company made the time pass swiftly and kept the choking voices of doubt and dismay at bay. That was all Steve could ask for, under the circumstances.

~~*~~

"Hey, man!" Sam said, his bright smile a welcome contrast to the somber common room.

"Sam!" Steve stood to greet him with a hard hug. "You asshole! You didn't tell me you were coming in today! I would have picked you up!"

Sam dropped his duffle to return Steve's hug. "I told you, Rogers, I don't ride bitch. You and that bike of yours are dangerous, man!"

"This from the guy who trusts Stark wings!"

"Hey, now! That's just uncalled for!" Tony huffed as he entered the area. "Sam the Man's back. Good to see you, Daedalus. The place had entirely too much of that old-folks' retirement home vibe going on without you."

"Tony!" Steve chided, but he was smiling. He'd fucking missed Sam. Don't get him wrong. He liked Tony. They'd patched up their differences and managed to turn their original bullshit into a working partnership and a growing friendship. But Sam. Well, no one didn't like Sam WIlson. His presence just eased the way, especially the assassin-sized holes that were nearly everywhere you looked in the Tower.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised at Tony. "Are you saying you missed my music, Stark? Is that what you're implying?"

Tony rolled his shoulders and didn't meet Sam's eyes, making Steve snicker. "Maybe."

"Jarvis, spin it, man!" And music burst from every speaker. It was no less foreign than the ear shattering 'hard rock' Tony listened to in the lab, but it did make Steve's feet begin to tap and he smiled when Sam grabbed Tony and did something he called dancing, but looked remarkably explicit to Steve.

But he joined in when Sam tugged him close, Steve's attempts to follow Sam's movements making them all laugh.

And the best thing was that it felt _great._

Of course, if you asked Steve to remember that feeling later, asked him to describe tripping over his feet and laughing with Tony and Sam, he'd have to answer that he had no fucking clue; almost like it hadn't happened. It didn't feel like it had. Like it _could_ have. 

Not when he was moving rhythmically -- couldn't call it dancing -- one minute and then the next he was frozen, caught out, couldn't even breathe as he stared into the open elevator, lungs forgotten as he watched Natasha prod Bucky -- there was no doubt it was Bucky, not the Winter Soldier -- forward. His steps were halting and jerky, head bowed and eyes downcast.

The sudden silence wasn't just in Steve's head. Jarvis had turned the music off and no one was saying a word.

That was probably on Steve, probably his to say, to do.

Lucky for Steve, his heart led him better than his head ever had.

"Buck!" he cried as his arms wrapped tight around Bucky's too-skinny frame. Steve latched on, clinging, his head buried in Bucky's neck, afraid to breathe in case this was a dream, a ruse: something he couldn't bear the weight of, if so. Bucky stood still, arms at his side, but Steve could feel his heart hammering, pounding frantic and sharp where their chests pressed tight.

"Bucky," Steve murmured, a whisper of air and then the music restarted. The tune was familiar now and Steve grinned. _Troubleman._ As Steve began to sway, the barest of movements, Bucky hummed, "Punk," but he responded, arms raising to grip Steve tight, the firmest of bindings.

"Dance with me, gorgeous," Steve heard Sam say, while Natasha's reply was lost in a puff of warm breath at Steve's ear. "Let's show the geezers how it's done."

"Hey! Who you calling old?" Tony argued.

Steve didn't look up, couldn't pull away if he'd tried, but he felt Bucky's smile, the way his jaw shifted, the cadence of his breath matching Steve's. And damn, if that wasn't better than anything.

"What in the hell have you dragged me into, Rogers?" Bucky whispered as Natasha pulled Tony forward, the three of them undulating together as the music sped up.

"Home, Buck. It's home," Steve answered, and the hint of a nod and Bucky's arms holding him was all the reassurance Steve needed.

~~*~~

Steve leaned against the counter staring idly at the washers and dryers, the tumble of clothes meshing with the cadences of Glenn Miller to blot out the voices of self-doubt that grew overly loud and insistent whenever Bucky had a setback. And this last one -- Sam called it a breakthrough -- had been a doozy that sent Bucky to the gym and the heavy bag while Steve fled here: his sanctuary.

It was no Fortress of Solitude; he was just a guy from Brooklyn, after all, but the mechanical rhythms coupled with his favorite swing managed to serve as well.

"Steve?" Natasha said, her boots making no sound on the tile flooring as she entered. 

"Hey, Nat," he said.

Natasha leaned against the counter next to Steve, her elbow nudging him to shift over. "What's so fascinating?"

Steve ducked his head and looked away as he felt a flush creep up his cheeks. "Um," he stammered.

Natasha glanced up at him before very visibly taking in the shiny appliances and their pristine setting. "So this is where you come to think?"

"I guess," he shrugged.

"I've seen worse coping strategies," she said. "Hell, I _have_ worse coping strategies. And don't get me started on Clint's."

Steve wasn't sure but suspected that Natasha bringing up Clint was deliberate. So he asked, "And what's our archer been up to? I haven't seen him since--"

"Since he heard Coulson was alive?"

"Yeah."

"He's there. With Coulson."

"Oh. I see," Steve said, the words coming out automatically because he didn't really see. 

"No."

Steve blinked at Natasha, silently hoping she'd explain herself, Clint. _Something._

"You don't get it. I didn't, either. I was… well, I was so pissed, and that's why you got Bucky."

"Now I really don't follow."

Natasha went silent for a beat too long and Steve was thinking what he could say to start her talking again.

After a slow breath, she looked up at him and shook her head. "You didn't know Coulson, couldn't understand what he was like. He saw something worth saving in both Clint and I, but it was more than that." She paused, shifted to lean against Steve. "He took your image to heart and he was a good man, Steve. But he was as oblivious as you to his own qualities."

"I am not--"

"Hush. Look around you. Where do you go to think?" Her hand waved around the room. "A fuckin' laundry room. You are a walking-talking cliché, Rogers. So clean cut you can't be real." Her lip twitched in what might become a smile. 

"Now just a damn--"

She kept talking, ignoring his bristling. "And Coulson. Well, he took after you. Inspired loyalty, not because he emulated you, but because he _cared._ " That was a smile, but it was sad and fleeting.

"He didn't know his own worth and drove some of us crazy because of it." She shook her head. "What kind of guy goes up against a demi-god with an experimental gun?"

Before Steve could answer, she said, "Phil Coulson. He trusted me to get Clint back and he bought us all time because he didn't think it'd matter. Didn't think he was special. Knew the world'd go on turning without him." Her voice trailed off. "But it didn't. Not for Clint. Not for _me._ "

When she glanced up at Steve he was surprised to see her eyes shiny bright. "I was tired of being lied to, Steve. Tired of being left behind." She leaned a little more heavily against him and he risked lifting his arm to draw her close. That made her huff, but she didn't shift away.

"But I wasn't half in love with the man. So, hard as it was for me, I had nothing on Clint."

Steve tried to process that, thought he understood what she was implying, but he didn't want to assume. And she was still talking, "I was so angry, ready to take my pound of flesh…"

"And?"

"I couldn't." Natasha bowed her head. "It's not my story to tell, but he followed Fury's orders despite what was in his heart. He _trusted_ the system and got burned by it."

Steve snorted.

"Yeah," she agreed. "But Clint has an endless supply of forgiveness."

"So they're what? Lovers?" Steve's lips tripped on the words.

"Maybe. They're working through some shit. But they're idiots. Clint's self-worth issues have issues and Phil doesn't know just how attractive he is." It was then that Natasha gave him a sly kind of smile. "Sound familiar, 'just a guy from Brooklyn'?"

Steve looked down. "I'm no Cary Grant. That'd be Bucky."

"I rest my case." 

He blinked and frowned at Natasha. "What?"

"Clint and Phil have some heavy shit to work through, but theirs is a walk in the park compared to you and James. But I _know_ you, Steven Grant Rogers. And as hard as it's been, as hard as it will be, I know you're doing your best. And so does James."

Steve sighed. "Was all this your roundabout way of giving me a pep talk? Because, if so? You suck."

Natasha threw her head back and laughed. It was a husky, musical sound and filled Steve with a swelling joy. She pushed away from the counter and offered Steve a hand. "I know a certain soldier that needs a break."

Steve allowed himself to be tugged out of the room.

"I'll even make the sandwiches," Natasha said.

"No way. You don't know what meat is!" Steve argued as they stepped into the elevator.

"Hey, I owe you for saving my lingerie from Clint. You can have all the processed meat you want."

The doors slid closed and Steve leaned back, a smile on his face. Now wasn't perfect, but he had more than he'd ever imagined he would. He had Bucky, and a _family._ He could work with that.

The End

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Fill for my cotton candy bingo square: _routine(s)._  
>  Title from _'Dog Days Are Over'_ by Florence and the Machine
> 
> **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon's characters used in the spirit of creative commons. I promise to return them with smiles on.


End file.
